The night planted something heavy in her stomach, a pit of concentrated dread she'd been fending off since the decision. She ached just below her ribcage, too, in a knotted sort of uneasiness that threw her off balance even as the dull, dense fear weighed her down. She felt all of this before she sat up, before she even opened her eyes. She felt along with it the body of a man she'd been meant to kill sleeping warmly at her side. She remembered then why she felt this way.

Ziva David was a condemned woman.

He stirred as she stirred, the sunlight pouring in through the curtains making them both squint.

"Wha' time 'zit?" he mumbled. She sat up, and looked at the red numbers through dizzied vision.

She swallowed, clearing thick sleep from her throat. "Just after six."

He huffed. "I've gotta get home and get ready for work."

"You are getting up now?"

"Ten more minutes," he groaned, burying his face back in her pillow.

"I will go get ready and get you up when I am done," she decided, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. She blinked and, as the world swayed and stomach turned, fought the sudden urge to vomit.

She would not look herself in the mirror as she brushed her teeth, pulled back her hair, put on clean clothing. As she bent over the sink and splashed her face with water, she could feel the woman in the mirror watching, judging. It was the woman of her nightmare, that blood-soaked woman that clutched a dripping knife in white knuckles. Ziva did not look, for fear of becoming her once again.

This was her decision. No matter the consequences.

It did not take her long to get ready, but she delayed slightly in waking him up. Once she left this room, she would be saying goodbye to him. This was the last time she would ever see him, and it should not have affected her, but it did. Perhaps if she knew what to say, this would have been easier, but she was as much at a loss now as she had been last night.

Did she leave without a word? Or did she end it here and now, and say whatever it took for him to forget her? Surely the second option was the more merciful, but with all she would face today it was so tempting to simply walk away and let him interpret her absence as he pleased.

She could no longer stand this room, with the mirror that took up half the wall and the woman within it who beckoned. She seized the handle and fell back out into the bedroom. And there was Tony, sitting half-naked on the side of the bed, examining the yellow piece of notepad paper clenched tightly in his hands.

"Ziva…?"

She frowned, heart flipping at the wide-eyed expression on his face. "Hmm?"

"What the hell is this?" With those words he jerked the paper up for her to see, hands trembling. His eyes searched her face, begging for an explanation. She realized then what he was holding, what he had found.

She did not have to decide what to tell him, now—this eliminated all options but one. She sucked in a breath.

"Tony, listen to me—"

"Were you following me?!"

She took a few steps back, swaying. She shook her head, blinking wildly. "You do not understand. It is not—"

"Oh, it's not?" His voice climbed an octave. "Monday night: left Navy Yard at 8, stayed home. Tuesday night: gym at 7. Wednesday night… Do I need to keep going? Or do you get the idea?"

Bile crept up in her throat, and she wanted nothing more than to run away. She floundered, lips opening and closing as she struggled for an explanation.

"It is not what you think," she tried to reason, holding her hand out, palm down.

"Then what is it, Ziva? Because I can only think of one explanation for this."

She swallowed, hard. "Tony…"

"Who are you? Who do you work for?"

She shook her head emphatically. Her jaw ached and voice wavered, almost pleading. "I cannot tell you that."

"The hell you can't! Why are you here?"

The room spun, and she swayed. She reached out to hold onto something, anything, but her grasping fingers found nothing. Pressure built in her chest, behind her eyes. Everything was spiraling. "I cannot…" It was barely a whisper.

"Are you here to kill me? Spy on me? What do you want?"

She looked up, then, eyes round and growing red. "I cannot…"

He slammed his hand down on the bedside table, and she startled. "Tell me! You owe me that!"

"I ca—"

"You cannot what, Ziva?"

"I cannot kill you!" she erupted, eyes bulging, chest bursting. "I tried to go through with it, I did, but I cannot."

"You expect me to believe that?" he scoffed. "An assassin that can't kill a man?"

She shook her head, mouth slack as she tried to pull in breaths. "This is different."

"Well, you know what, it doesn't matter! You lied to me, were sent to kill me. Whether you were going to go through with it or not doesn't matter. You think I care that you planned to give up a payout to keep me alive? It doesn't matter."

Is that what you think? she wanted to ask, but the world was still spinning and her lungs were convulsing and this was not how she wanted this to happen. The sunrise that morning brought with it this day of consequences, and with the horror of her father's judgment, her sentence, looming so close, everything seemed to suffocate her.

Her world spiraled, spiraled, spiraled.

He stood, grabbing his shirt and letting the crumpled paper falling to the floor. Her one slip up. She prayed her father would not find out she'd blown her cover—the punishment would be threefold.

Tony started making for the door, and she stumbled out of the way. She watched him retreat from the apartment, toward the door, buttoning his shirt as he went.

"I'm going to my boss," he stated, not even looking over his shoulder. "Don't be here when we get back."

The door slammed behind him, and the dull sound echoed off the bare walls. She stood for a moment, bracing herself against the dresser, letting the defeat crash over her, and the dust of this godforsaken life she's led to settle atop the rubble. She shuddered, for a few moments.

And then she got to work, gathering the few belongings she'd brought with her. Everything fit in a single duffel bag. A knife, a manila folder, a wad of money, a passport, hair and tooth brushes, and a few pairs of clothing. She left the dresses she'd bought for their dates lying atop the sheets. There was no point in taking them back with her. After all, she knew what happened to those who disobeyed her father, to those whose loyalty he questioned.

He would never trust her again, and she might as well have been handed a death sentence.

For a moment, a brief, brief moment, as she stood in the center of the empty apartment with her bag slung over her shoulder, she considered running away. It was a foolish thought, foolish to think she could ever drop off the grid with her father in such a position of power. She could run from him, but she could not outrun him. She could change her name, cut her hair, spend her life running from city to city, country to country—he would still find her. She would rather not prolong her fate.

She sat the bag down and headed back to the bedroom, stooping to pick up the crumpled paper by the bed. She grabbed a pen from the drawer and wandered, light-headed, back to the dining table, turning the paper over and smoothing it against the wood. With trembling hands she scribbled a message, the wobbly letters belying her terror. Perhaps she was not the brave soldier she'd always pretended to be.

She saddled the duffel bag once again and left the apartment without a backwards glance. With distant, resigned eyes she rode the elevator down three floors, walked out to the side of the street, and hailed a cab to take her to the airport.

Behind her, she left only a few things to suggest she'd ever been in Washington—a few pairs of clothing, and a crumpled paper bearing three words that served as her suicide note.

Please forgive me.

.:.

She did not go directly to Tel Aviv. Instead, she took a short flight that arrived at JFK just before ten. Perhaps she was stalling, putting off the inevitable, but she justified it by reminding herself that she had one more thing to do before she could return to Israel.

He returned to his flat in the early evening to find Ziva sitting on his leather sofa, waiting. She saw the alarm flare in his features, and he hesitated, looking toward the door.

"Who are you? How did you get in here?"

"It is a simple pin and tumbler design," she mused, looking back to her hands where she was picking her nails with her knife.

"If you want money—"

"It is not money I want, Mr. DiNozzo," she cut him off, sheathing her knife at her waist and standing to face him. "I only ask that you listen."

.:.

She landed at Ben Gurion the next evening, having spent the whole day traveling. She did not sleep on the plane, could not sleep on the plane. Every second, the flying hunk of metal brought her closer, closer to her father, to the consequences of being her mother's daughter; the consequences of having a conscience.

It was her mother she sought out first when the wheels touched the ground. The night was cool, with a salty sea breeze. It usually calmed her, brought her a sense of peace, knowing she was home. Never before had she despised it so much.

A taxi took her to her mother's house outside the city just after the sun had set. She had not been here since they laid her baby sister to rest; since the Shiva that ended in furious shouts and accusations. That evening that she ran out was the last time she had seen her mother.

Every step up the walkway made her heart beat faster, twisted her stomach into even worse knots. She wanted her mother. She wanted to collapse in her arms, to let her pet her hair as she whispered, shh, motek, you made the right decision. She craved affirmation and comfort. She needed someone to give her the strength she would need to face what was waiting for her at Mossad Headquarters. She needed her ima, needed so desperately to hear her soothing voice say I am proud of you.

But she knocked on the door and, after a long few minutes, it opened to reveal a young man with a fussing infant in his arms. She stood, dazed, realizing what this meant.

"Yes?"

Her mouth opened, shut, opened, shut. "I-I am sorry," she stuttered.

"You are looking for the woman who used to live here?"

She nodded wordlessly, not trusting her voice.

"We bought it from her a few months ago, way below market price. She seemed really eager to sell it."

Her voice was thin, disconnected. "Do you know where she went?"

He shook his head, and she was not surprised. "Sorry."

She turned, then, retreating back down the walkway much faster than she'd come. The night had darkened rapidly, sidewalk illuminated only by a few staggered street lamps. With each step, the weight of hopelessness settled heavier on her shoulders.

But worse than that was the knowledge that she was completely, truly, alone.

There were no cabs patrolling suburban Tel Aviv at this time of night, so she walked. Even if she had found a ride, she did not know where they would take her. She had no home, no family left but the one who would deliver her punishment. She would not burden any distant relatives with the few hours left of this last night. It would not be fair to them.

So she walked, for miles, until her legs and mind were numb, until her lungs burned and vision swam. Eventually she came across a cheap motel, and she paid in cash for one night. The tired man at the front desk showed her to a dirty room with peeling wallpaper and ratty curtains. This was how she was to spend her last night as a free woman.

As she curled up in filthy sheets, she realized that she had never been a free woman. Her father had seen to that.

Just as on the plane, she did not sleep, and not due to jet lag. There was no deafening engine or crying child, but it was what lived inside her head that rendered her an insomniac. She was still numb, still reeling from the crushing blow of being alone in this world.

Eventually the sun rose, and she rose with it.

.:.

Mossad Headquarters was already milling with people, even at six in the morning. She knew her father would be here, sitting behind his grand desk in the office of the Deputy Director. From behind that desk, Eliahu David played God.

She walked alone through the cold hallways, feeling as though everyone were staring. Her feet found the familiar path to the fourth-floor office. She stood erect, shoulders squared, eyes empty. Her father's receptionist looked up from a file.

"He's been waiting for you," the woman said, pity in her eyes. Ziva did not waver. She simply nodded and grabbed the knob. She twisted, pushed, and came face to face with her judge. Her stomach was in her throat.

"Abba."

Slowly, every movement measured, he closed the file on his desk, slipped the glasses from his eyes, and looked up.

She had never before seen such fury in his eyes. Somehow, he already knew. She braced herself, grounding her feet on the floor so as to not stagger backwards. She braced, and waited.

Slowly, measuredly, he stood, circling around to the front of the desk. The pit of dread lodged in her stomach dissolved into her bloodstream, sending liquid fear into every limb. It took all she had to stay rooted where she was. He was a giant of a man—not in body, but in presence—and he held her life in the palm of his hands.

"What do you have to say for yourself?" His low voice was charged with quiet rage.

She stood there, straight-backed, staring her empty eyes straight into his. Silent.

"Nothing? Nothing at all? After you disobey me, fraternize with the enemy, jeopardize Mossad, blow your cover?"

She sucked in a small breath. "How did you know about that?" He snarled, smacking his hand against the desk so loudly and suddenly that she flinched.

"You are really that foolish? I have eyes and ears everywhere, Ziva, including within NCIS!" He loomed over her, and she felt so small. "Worse than disobey a direct order, you betrayed me! You betrayed Mossad, you betrayed your country!" He rattled it off like a laundry list of crimes, a one man jury screaming guilty, guilty, guilty.

She blinked. "Tony was an innocent man and you know it."

"Your job is to follow orders! It is not your place to judge who is innocent and who deserves to die, Ziva!"

"Oh, but it is yours?"

He drew back, nostrils flaring. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, side-by-side with the fear. She wondered if he would strike her, as he had sometimes when she was young and disobedient. For a few charged moments they stood in a stand off, as for the first time she allowed herself to confront him.

And it would have felt good, if she hadn't known what was coming.

He reached out and grabbed the folder he'd been reading before she walked in. He held it out to her coldly, and returned to sit in his cushioned leather chair.

"You leave tonight. Hadar will be your Control Officer. Read up on the details and report at 1900."

She took a peak inside the folder, and a name and picture jumped out at her. She blanched, the color draining from her cheeks.

"And my team?" she asked. His face was stony, mouth a straight line.

"You will not have a team."

"Abba, this man is one of the highest in Hamas's ranks, I cannot simply seduce him—"

His sharp voice cut clear through her words. "You are in no position to argue with me, Ziva. You will do this mission, and you will do it alone. You will prove your loyalty to me, and to Israel." He placed the bifocals back on the bridge of his nose. "Goodbye."

She left his office, moving like a zombie through the halls. His last words still echoed in her head with a dull finality. She knew in that moment she would never see him again.

She did not leave headquarters, because she had nowhere to go. Instead she found a dark corner in the basement where no one would find her—a file storage room, where years ago she'd pinned a man to a metal cabinet and let him take her, rough, dirty, quick. She'd been a different woman then, one fueled by patriotism and duty, whose mind was filled with the misguided teachings of her father. How different things were now, in the end of it all.

She sat on the floor, leaned against the wall, and began reading the details of her death sentence.


A/N: I don't think I even have enough words to apologize at this point. Lehavot picked me up and swept me away, and I'm sorry. I didn't intend to take this long to update, and I really hope this doesn't happen again. The same goes for All Fall Down—I plan to update that not too long from now.

My greatest thanks to Dina, prince-bishop, athenalarissa, slurmina, libby, babyvfan, 123sannancis, liketoreadnotwrite, .5SOS, Roxy, Trish, tivaheartbreak15, VG littlebear, amaia, j09tiva, TheBlueDragonWolf, Tatiana, Com2meZt, jgibbs7, a guest, cornishcez, kfink77, weasleyemma, aquasm, and another guest! You guys are absolutely wonderful. And my eternal thanks, as always, to Nicole, for being the awesome writing buddy that she is :)

-Allison